


cold poison poured into my soul

by whoistorule



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 09:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoistorule/pseuds/whoistorule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is for <a href="http://magnetgirl.tumblr.com">magnetgirl</a> for the #february femfest #galentines day exchange.  It's a Natasha-centric retrospective piece about her past as Russia's greatest spy.</p><p>
  <i>Natalia Romanova was no soldier.  She was a more advanced type of weapon, a more insidious one, one who thought and acted of her own accord. Sometimes she knew her victims, and sometimes she didn't, but when there were triggers to be pulled, or knives to pry between ribs, flesh parting sweetly as a kiss, Natalia never hesitated.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	cold poison poured into my soul

**Author's Note:**

> I have to admit I’ve only read the first two issues of _Winter Soldier_ and I read them a while ago and I know Natasha gets some memories removed (I’m not clear on the specifics) but I have read all of the existing new _Black Widow_ book and I'm obsessed with the parallels between Natasha and Bucky both taking singular missions of atonement, so this is an AU where they continue to atone but they do it together.
> 
> Many thanks to [rhllors](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rhllors) for betaing!

All her life, she knew soldiers were simple weapons; triggers to be pulled. Faceless and nameless and easily replaceable. They could pass along any guilt they accidentally acquired like a factory worker passed a half built car; it wasn't theirs to own, they gave no orders, made no decisions, fired when they were told and wiped the dust from their fingers without ever having to see a drop of red.

Natalia Romanova was no soldier.  She was a more advanced type of weapon, a more insidious one, one who thought and acted of her own accord. Sometimes she knew her victims, and sometimes she didn't, but when there were triggers to be pulled, or knives to pry between ribs, flesh parting sweetly as a kiss, Natalia never hesitated.  After all, she knew her purpose.  She knew why men must bleed to make Russia great.  Or at least she _thought_ she knew why.

Now, as the years stretched taut like a rubber band between her and the mother that swaddled her in red and nursed her at the barrel of a gun, she could hardly remember what they were. And yet, she couldn’t shake the fear that one day a gear would shift, and her old training would come flooding back; that she’d snap to Russia’s breast, her loyalties forgotten, her partnerships, her pledges of fidelity nothing but iron dust. 

Oh it had been fun, of course.  What woman wouldn't want the thrill of having every eye in the room on her, of knowing the secrets of powerful men, of snuffing out men's lives like firefly's lanterns, of knowing she was the most dangerous weapon Russia ever produced.  Natalia Romanova.  Natasha Romanoff.  The Black Widow.  A seductress so alluring that even those who guessed her at aims were powerless before the toss of her striking hair, a generous dose of cleavage, and the crest of her cherry-red smile.

It was easier then, before betrayal burdened her with a conscience.  They had called it love, the reason she fled Russia’s crushing embrace, love for Clint Barton, but Natalia knew better.  Clint Barton had only shed light on the lies that had been peeling like wallpaper for years.

Which was worse, she oft wondered, was it to know you chose to pull a trigger, to know the names and faces of all you killed, to see the list flicker on the LCD screen in the darkness and know no matter how many wins you put in the black column, it would never wipe out the red. Or perhaps it was to live as James did, never knowing the true extent of his own horrors, to have no control as your body was pulled by cruel marionette strings, your consciousness buried beneath a sediment of lies.

Natalia prefers her own hell. It may keep her awake until the middling hours, but she didn't wake screaming as James did, his body covered in a cold sweat, another horror beating drums in his veins, with no way of knowing what was truth and what exaggerated fiction.

Tonight, at least, he slept, his pale chest nearly as silver as his gleaming arm, his breath shallow but steady.  White scar lines rippled across his chest, an x here, a slash there, so pale only her well trained eyes could find them. (Natalia always _was_ gifted at finding a man's weak points, cracks and fissures that she could exploit, that she could rupture.)

James was a soldier, even before frost grew on his bones and hardened his heart, he’d been a soldier with Steve Rogers.  They had fought Nazis together in the last war between good and evil, the last war that a man could walk away from with a clean conscience.  But James had not walked away, no, he was blown far and incubated in Russia’s womb same as Natalia, only where her walls were warm and red, his were ice.

How could he have stood it, Natalia wondered, wearing the colors of a country like this, pledging his loyalty again when it had once been so sorely misused.  Of course the Soviets took where he did not give freely, they warped his will to their own, bound him with a silver limb and home-grown iron bones.  Did the stars burn into his skin?  Did the stripes rip lines into his chest?  Could he feel them against his rattling bones?  Or did the muscle and sinew he earned defending the country that left him for dead protect the chambers of his heart?

Natalia preferred her own black. It was simpler, clean. It betrayed no loyalties, made no promises, it offered her anonymity when she needed it, yet left her no less striking than when she wore minks.  It showed no blood, not hers, not those of her enemies.  Even when she struck to kill, it was with the cold heart of a spy.

It took the scorn of a nation to rip the red, white, and blue from James’s back, to push him back into the shadows, back into the realm of the dead. He wore his old title like a knife wound that each day twisted further into his gut. The Winter Soldier. The agent of death.

She had known him as he was in his prime, the killing machine he was manufactured into, and it had awed her once when she was more malleable. But where James was ice-brittle only to hide the way his heart bled and his anger burned, Natalia was fluid, moving without changing, never breaking, never burning out.

And yet, they understood one another the way only traitors could.  Betrayal was something they wore beneath clothes and skin; it beat with their hearts and moved through their veins. Only when struck did it bubble, bright, to the surface, old wounds resurfacing, reminding them that no matter how much they changed, how much black they put in the books, it would never erase the red.

The slim buzz of her phone broke Natalia’s reverie; beside her she could feel James beginning to stir.

“Da,” she nodded into the dark, “Da.  Nyet.  Da.”

The light thud of her phone hitting the night table echoed in the silent room, and Natalia pressed her long nails into her palm, breathing quietly, letting calm settle in her skin.

“James,” her voice was quiet, deliberate, but without urgency.  He roused at once, blinking the night from his dark lashed eyes.  Natalia pressed an intimate kiss to his sleep-chapped lips.  She could hear his breath steadying, preparing; there was only one reason she would get a call on _that_ phone in the middle of the night.

“Let’s get to work.”


End file.
